


Shargridge Academy for young Students

by supernaturallysherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturallysherlocked/pseuds/supernaturallysherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the school year starts there are the usual few new students in their year, but John soon realises that there are some special cases as the Mysterious Sherlock Holmes appears, quickly followed by a Sly James Moriarty, who's intentions don't seem to just include an A in chemistry...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First day back

John sighed, exasperated with the teacher as he made another mistake. He gazed aimlessly out of the window for a few minutes before noticing a car pull up at the gates. A tall figure climbed out of one side, apparently shouting at the person in the front seat. A teenage boy slid out of it, arguing with his companion, and swinging a bag over his shoulder. He was clad in the school's uniform, wearing a thin grey jumper over his school shirt and tie. After a few minutes he seemed to give up, abruptly turning and walked quickly towards the main building, stopping mid-sentence. John turned away, unimpressed by the skirmish. Great, another dramatic family in the school.

\-------------------

Sherlock marched past the confused receptionist at her desk and straight to the head master's office, furious at his swung open the door and stood inside, startling the man sitting behind the desk."Mr. Wilberton." The headmaster glared up at him, jerking in his chair. Mr Wilberton bulged out of his chair when he moved and sweat seemed to endlessly flow from his pours.

"Sit."

"I prefer to stand." Sherlock's eyes bored into the headmasters, prompting him to stand as well.

"I've read your file,er," he checked a sheet of paper in front of him,"Sherlock, and I'm not impressed. I can to tell you now-"

"That I 'can't expect to act like I did in other schools'," Sherlock interrupted, staring down at Mr Wilberforce, Taking advantage of the height difference between them,

"That _your_ school is different, but your wrong. Goodbye." A smirk pulled across Sherlock's teeth as he span on his heel, leaving an outraged headmaster in his wake.

\-------------------

After English John had psychology, which was artfully placed right at the other side of the school. He chucked his notebook into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and followed the rest of the class out of the door. Moping down the corridors, he hesitated before getting the notebook back out, the pen still attached to the ring binder. He flipped the cover back and opened it by the first page. It was his very first sketch, the one he had done the day he had arrived at Shargridge Academy, two years before. It showed his father, out by the gates, pulling a slightly younger John inside. Chuckling to himself as he turned down another corridor, John flicked through the notebook until he was about two thirds into the book, landing on his latest addition. Pulling out the Biro, he added some extra shading and tone to the drawing until he was happy with it.

John didn't stop sketching until he got to his next class, and then only because his teacher had already threatened to take the notebook away three times that week. Sighing, he stumbled to his usual seat, ready for another pointless lesson.

It took nearly an hour for the receptionist to process Sherlock's information, which made him miss his first lesson entirely. That annoyed him. A lot. It wasn't as if he wanted to go to English, he could speak the language perfectly without any assistance, but the fact that she wasted so much time just talking. She was constantly asking unnecessary questions, where he grew up, his favourite band, even what he preferred to eat for breakfast and although he met each with the same cold, indifferent glare, she continued almost relentlessly.

John stared out of the window as usual, occasionally adding to the drawing in his sketchbook that he had hidden behind the blind. About twenty minutes into the lesson, the new kid from outside walked in, not bothering to knock. Sherlock glared at the teacher, who Beaming at him and hauled him in front of the rest of the class, who turned silent as they noticed him.

"Now, Class, this is... " she had to stop to ask him his name, frowning when she heard it. "That's unusual..." she muttered to him before turning back to the others. " _Sherlock._ He's new, so help him out, ok?" She ushered the grumbling new boy forward, inviting him to take a seat. Muttering angrily under his breath Sherlock marched to the only empty seat in sight, next to John. As the new kid came over, John quickly stuffed the notebook behind the curtain fully; he didn't want to look like some freak, drawing strangers. Sherlock noticed his movements and smirked arrogantly as he relaxed in his chair, dumping his bag under the table. John smiled sheepishly and nudged under the table, holding out his hand.

"John, Watson." Sherlock looked down at his hand, sniffed, then shook it a little hesitantly.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock looked John up and down before turning back to the front, disinterest plain on his face. A little self conscious and now irritated, John poked him a little harder.

"And you are?"

"Sherlock. Holmes." He didn't bother turning to look at John, just answering in a flat voice. John huffed at him, exasperated, and sat in silence throughout the rest of their lesson. He shot Sherlock glares at every opportunity, but it seemed he was oblivious as he scribbled into his own notebook with an almost frantic speed. 

Sherlock wasn't in John's next lesson, history. As he made his way into the lunch hall after another unhelpful session with the teacher from hell, John saw Sherlock sitting in the corner. He was alone on his table, despite the crowds of students around all of the others. It seemed that the rest of the school had already decided that Sherlock wasn't exactly friendly. John bought a sandwich and reluctantly made his way over to Sherlock, rolling his eyes and muttering about how it was the only table with a seat left anyway. "So," he said, sitting with his back to the rest of the school,

"What type are you then?" he smirked as Sherlock looked up at him, obviously confused.

"You know, loner, tortured genius, rebel, or just dull?" Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the screen of his phone.

"Genius, but not tortured." He said, rather to arrogantly for John's liking.

"Seriously? I don't believe you..."

"Why not?" Sherlock turned his gaze onto John, his eyes darker than most people as he stared, unblinkingly.

"Because you, well you just can't...er..." John mumbled away into nothing as he reluctantly realised that Sherlock _did_ seem like a genius, well, either that or a nutter anyway... As he turned his drifting attention back to the boy opposite, he realised Sherlock was waiting for his full attention.

"how eloquent. Don't believe me? Fine." Sherlock snapped his phone down on to the table, his eyes cold. "Take a look around you, John, what do you know about the people you waste the majority of your life with? Maybe that one of them is your neighbour, or that your P.E teacher in year seven is married to your second cousin, but nothing important. For example, take that teacher there," he was speaking quickly, barely pausing for breath as he indicated to their English teacher at the back of the room. "Mr Thrickson. He's only taught you for a few months, you barely know his name, but I've learnt more in this moment, no this _second_ , than you would have in a year. Want to know what? First, he has a tumour. Surprised? Ask him. He only found out this weekend, hasn't told his family yet." John's eyes flicked from Sherlock to the teacher, perplexed, "He better soon, he's only got a few months left, six at the most.. more? He has two children, two girls, both in primary school. He worries about their future, how they'll cope without him. He's a single parent, his wife left him six years ago, alone with a baby and a four year old." Sherlock glared at John after he had finished, but it soon changed to his usual smirk as he saw the look of awe on John's face. His mouth was even a little open, how quaint.

"...Whoa. That was...amazing." A grin spread across John's face, confusing Sherlock.

"really? That's not how people usually react..." he squinted slightly at John, as if trying to tell if he was trying to make fun of him.

"then what do they say?"

"normally? 'piss off.' " John burst out laughing, causing Sherlock to smile in spite of himself.

 

_End of chapter one_


	2. Newbies

The girl looked up at him, her crimson hair framing her face with soft curls,mixing with her deep blue eyes to form that picture-perfect beauty you can only find in fairytales and children's stories.

Such a shame it was an old photo.

Turning away from the dusty photo, James pulled out another box from the stack beside him and began rummaging through it, casually dropping frame onto the bare wooden floorboards as he did so. A rare smile tweaked at the corners of his lips when the glass smashed, and James even stopped looking just long enough to drop to his knees, scoop up a broken shard and slip it into his pocket.

After another hour of searching, James was interrupted for a second time, only now by the women herself. To say 'time had aged her' would, in James's opinion, have been an understatement as he felt a familiar rush of disgust as he glared up at her. Her hair had faded since the photo had been taken, now a greasy shade of grey, and her eyes were clouded and bloodshot. She'd ruined the rest of her face with surgery, her forehead and cheeks frozen into place while the rest of her skin was twisted into a permanent frown.  It took a minute or so for James to fully realise she was shouting at him, and even then he didn't react. From experience, he'd learnt that if he ignored her  long enough, she'd eventually give up and leave, so he remained hunched on a beam until his mother left him alone in the attic.

James Moriarty and his mother had lived alone together for most of his life, constantly moving from place to place because of her work. This time, they had moved into a new district of London, where she said they were going to stay permanently, not that he believed her. She'd already enrolled James at the local school, where he'd have to join halfway through the term. Brilliant. James didn't mind going to school initially, but to be in a room with so many idiots for six hours a day was just demeaning.

He was already late when he left for school, attempting to untangle his headphones as he ambled down the street. The walk was uneventful, with just the usual amount of skiving students hanging around outside, so James headed straight into the main school building and through to the headmaster's office, ignoring the receptionist waving him back. He swung open the door to the office, greeting the startled expression of Mr Wilberforce with a smirk. After a rather long lecture about manners and first impressions, the Headmaster handed a small stack of papers to James, who took them with out a word and left, a single headphone still blasting into his ear.

* * *

James casually made his way to his first class, history, and arrived 20 minutes late as he swung open the door silently and stepped inside.

"Heard of knocking?" the teacher gave him a wonky grin, "you're the new kid, right?" he spoke quickly, as if he was in a rush to finish the sentence. "Good, well take a seat over there, next to Greg." James did so, slinging his bag under the table just as the teacher beckoned to him again. "what did you say your name was?"

"James. Moriarty." He spoke loudly, catching the classes attention before ignoring them all anyway. The teacher, a little perplexed, took a few seconds to notice the silence before breaking it, laughing nervously.

"Great, well welcome to history, James..." Greg nudged him under the table, offering a hand.

"Hey, I'm Greg, Lestrade, you're James right?" James looked at the hand and smiled to himself before shaking it warmly, giving the boy a toothy grin.

"Yeah, James."

* * *

James had English next, but no idea where it was so he followed Greg from a distance, expecting them to be in the same class. A pair of other students, a snooty looking boy and rather smitten girl, greeted Greg warmly, and  eventually the trio led James to the right place. The English teacher must have been History's polar opposite, a short fat woman who was shrewd and obtuse. As he walked in, she just stared at him for a minute or so before pointing to the only empty seat, at the back of the class. James was sat next to a tall, lanky looking boy who seemed far too old to be in school, let alone the same class. His chin was dotted with stubble and he had to hunch over to fit his knees under the table with out lifting it. James's eyes lit slightly as he studied the other boy, a grin tweaking at his lips.

"where'd you train?" his question caught the boy by surprise, but he didn't let it falter his blank expression.

"how'd you know?" James shrugged.

"do I really have to bother with details? What's your name, big boy?" James couldn't hold in the snicker that escaped his lips as the other boy's elbow fell off the edge of the table as he heard the new nickname.

"Sebastian, you?" James clicked his teeth thoughtfully.

"Sebastian? I'll call you Seb, snappier...I'm James." Sebastian chuckled in a deep tone,

"James? well I'll call you Jim, quicker." James frowned slightly, not sure if he liked being given a nickname, but it didn't look like he had a choice. 

* * *

James  strolled casually down the B block corridor, in no rush for his biology class. His eyes flicked from each of the small windows through the classroom doors to the next, watching teachers starting their lessons and the occasional student mucking about. How boring they all were. Although he'd only joined Shargridge Academy a few days before, James already knew how each teacher ticked, their weaknesses, what they did as a hobby. No surprising ones. Nothing special. just dull. He'd heard about the other new boy coming, but other than that each day was the same now, since he'd got Thrickson under his thumb anyway. Wasn't hard, not really. All it seemed to take was offering treatment, a way out. Thinking about it, he realised it was easy, almost too easy. Almost.

 


	3. Getting to know you

After making his excuses Sherlock left John at what was now their usual table, a good two weeks since his first day. He quickly slipped down the hallway towards the kitchens, then turned sharply and stopped next to the fire door. Trying the handle, he groaned as it held fast against his grip. Great, locked. Sherlock took a few steps back down the corridor, checking to see that no one was around, then paced back to the door and pulled a small Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He plucked out the tools and twisted them through the lock, dropping each of the seven pins separately with a satisfying click. Once he'd finished, Sherlock allowed himself a little smirk, slipping the knife back into his pocket and stepping through the door, swinging it shut behind him.

The fire door opened out to the loading bay for deliveries, and also, as it happened, to where the bins were kept, which were full of rotting food. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the distasteful sight and lent against a clean patch of wall, plucking a cigarette pack out of his blazer pocket. He pulled one out, and retrieved a match book from the other pocket, with a dark purple crescent centred on the cover. Thoughtfully, Sherlock struck the match, lit the tip of the cigarette and blew the burning matchstick out in one smooth movement before placing the cigarette between his lips and breathing in deeply, a single curl of smoke escaping his pale lips.

* * *

John sat alone at the table in the dining hall, resting his head on one hand while he tapped on the table with the other. Sherlock had gone to the headmaster's office, again. Whatever he was doing there it ages before he'd  finish, and he always expected John  to wait. John slumped back in his chair and gazed around the room, at a loss of what to do. 

Screw it.

 He slammed both hands down onto the table and stood up, grabbing his bag from where it hung on his chair.  Intent on entertaining himself without Sherlock, John marched down the corridor, heading to the library.

* * *

After a few minutes of smoky bliss, Sherlock plucked the burning stub of a cigarette from his lips and threw it on the ground. 

He navigated around the overflowing binbags and empty crates until he reached the fence, which led him to the back of the kitchens. Sherlock grimaced at the small gap between the wall and the fence before sliding through, brushing himself off as he emerged at the other side. He'd found this route the week before, and, disgusting as it was, it was the easiest way to re-enter the hall as if he'd come from the headmaster's office. There were many absent-minded students at Shargridge Academy , but John certainly wasn't one of them, and would definitely ask questions if he saw Sherlock wasn't going where he said he was.

He headed through another fire door and up the narrow corridor which opened up to the head's office and the teachers lounge, towards the lunch hall. He swung open the door, only to find that John's seat was empty.

Strange...

Sherlock turned on his heel and carried on walking, now going to the only other place he could think of John spending his lunch; the library. John had settled himself at a table with a small stack of books to the side of him when Sherlock came in, reading one intently. Narrowing his eyes slightly in anticipation, Sherlock headed over to the table and took a seat. John didn't look up, no doubt as an attempt to irritate him, Sherlock thought, and had to admit to himself that it  worked, not that he'd let _him_ know that. After a minute or so, John's resolve seemed to crumble and he closed the book, glaring at Sherlock.

"well?" John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

Brilliant... Sherlock thought, raising one eyebrow in return.

"...well?"

"well why did you need to see the head?" John's voice dripped sarcasam.

"he wanted my opinion on something." Sherlock idly flipped through one of the books on the desk.

"your opinion? What for?" John leaned forward to catch Sherlock's attention.

"oh, just some...staff differences..." Sherlock was preoccupied, reading the annotations John had added to his textbooks, but looked up as John scoffed at his answer.

"what?" 

"forget it." John rolled his eyes and stood up, clearing his books into his rucksack.

 If Sherlock wants to keep his little secrets, fine.

* * *

James strolled down the corridor, a headphone blasting with music dangling from one ear. Whistling along, he slid a stick of gum into his mouth and slowed his steps to the rhythm, swaying slightly. As he came around the corner, a crack of light through the fire door caught James' eye. His whistle fading out, James leant against the wall, next to the open crack of the door, his eyes narrowing as smoke filled his senses for a moment. James twisted around the door to find the source of the smoke, and was faced with the profile of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, however, couldn't see James because of the angle of the door, and apparently hadn't heard him either. Sherlock was wearing a long black coat, with the collar turned up against the autumn wind. He was watching the smoke rise from the lit cigarette he held in his hand, and James couldn't help but notice how slender and pale Sherlock's hands were, like a pianists. Even though they had never met, it was obvious to James that he was observing Sherlock Holmes, the other new boy. Greg was in some of Sherlock's classes, and often talked about his strange habits. According to Greg, he was some kind of genius. James smirked at the thought and span away from the fire door, dancing along to his music again as he strolled back down the empty corridor, whistling. 


	4. Fitting in

Shargridge Academy put a lot of weight behind their extra curricula activities, and demanded that each student joined at least one team or club as a rule. Because of this John was reluctant a member of the art department, but up until now Sherlock had managed to keep his free time to himself. 

The pair were sat at the back their physics class that morning, on their own table since the others had quickly grown tired if Sherlock's habits. John had his head in his hands, exasperated as he repeated himself for the third time. 

"Sherlock, he really doesn't appreciate being corrected every second." Sherlock glanced at John, his expression genuinely perplexed. 

"It's not my fault he's being stupid." 

"...No," John rolled his eyes inwardly and sat upright, "but you don't tell him that." 

"Why not?" Sherlock huffed. 

"It's rude, Sherlock." John suspected that no matter how long he knew Sherlock, he'd always be amazed at how he could tell you your life story at a glance and build a home made bomb, without knowing how to turn on a washing machine or what month it was. It was at this point that there was a quiet knock on the door, and one of the younger students shuffled in. Their teacher, a short man in his mid fifties, stomped over to the student, listened to their message and waved them back out. He turned back to face the class, a rueful grin on his face. 

"Holmes," his voice was sickeningly soft compared to his usual bark, "the head wants a word. Immediately." Sherlock frowned at him, one eyebrow cocked. 

"What about?" his reply obviously irritated the teacher, who practically spat a response, 

"How should I know? Just go, and take your stuff with you. With any luck, you won't be back this lesson." he gave Sherlock a smirk and carried on with the lesson. Sherlock muttered angrily under his breath as he gathered his things and flung them into his bag. John frowned at him. 

"What d'you think the head wants?" 

"No idea." 

Sherlock smirked and, spinning on his heel, he walked straight out the door. John turned to the teacher reluctantly, his thoughts far from physics. Maybe Sherlock wasn't lying about visiting the headmaster so often, but then why would Mr Wilberforce, of all people, place Sherlock's opinion do highly, he was only a student. 

\------------------ 

"Now, boy, it's been drawn to my attention-" 

"Finally." Sherlock cut in sharply, drawing a wonderful scowl on Mr Wilberforce's face. 

"it has finally," Mr Wilberforce pursed his lips, "been drawn to my attention that you still haven't joined a school club. Why not, may I ask?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. 

"Why would I waste more of my time than I have to?" 

"Speak like that to me again, boy, and you'll earn some detentions." Wilberforce smiled at Sherlock serenely. Sherlock smirked back and raised an eyebrow. 

"Oh really?" 

"Really. Have you seen your file, Mr Holmes?" He opened it casually from where he must've left it on the desk beforehand, waiting for this moment, Sherlock decided. "its already got quite a few little notes from your teachers, complaints, mainly." Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"I'm not surprised. Are they from Stapleton, biology? Oh what am I saying, of course they are, the man craves attention-" 

"And that's your first detention, Mr Holmes, congratulations," Wilberforce remarked, not bothering to hide his smirk as he wrote something into the file. "I'll enjoy seeing you tomorrow afternoon, 3 O'clock." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he hauled himself to his feet, one hand already on the door handle before he was called to a stop. 

"Oh, and don't worry about joining a club, I've got something particular in mind." 

\-------------------- 

Sherlock's hand was hovering just above the door handle of his physics class when he decided against going in. There was only a few minutes until the lesson finished, which gave him the perfect time and excuse to use his fire escape. Sherlock whipped his back into his pocket, already fumbling for his picks as he started to stroll casually back down the corridor. Once he reached the end and swung toward the doors to his left, however, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John pacing towards him. Damn. He reluctantly replaced the pick that was in his hand and stopped walking, back to John with his eyes half shut. Sherlock knew that John would dissaprove of his smoking habit, he was rather passionate on that particular topic, but why his dissaproval bothered Sherlock so much he couldn't understand. Sure, he liked showing off in front of John, but surely that was because John was the only one who actually appreciated his talents? Sherlock had never cared about people's dissaproving looks or opinions of him before, not in the same way that he did John's, anyway. 

John finally caught up and tapped Sherlock's shoulder lightly, silently announcing his presence before jumping into conversation. 

"What did he want, the Head?" Sherlock blinked his thoughts out of mind and started to walk with John to their next class. 

"Someone noticed im not in a club yet, apparently. Took them long enough." he smirked slightly. "And I got a detention." 

"Detention?" John was momentarily quizzical before realising, "You idiot, who did you annoy?" Sherlock frowned at his presumption, but he could hardly rebuke it. 

"Mainly the head, but no doubt Stapleton was part of it." 

"Idiot... So what club d'you join? Chemistry?" Sherlock chuckled while he thought of the answer, leading them upstairs to the second floor. 

"At a guess, I'd say either History or Music." 

\------------ 

Later that day, however, Sherlock was put in a bad mood after reading the note he was sent. Mr Wilberforce had a student bring it to him in History, his last lesson of the day, probably just to make a scene. It was a scrap of paper really, handwritten, which simply read; 

 

Sports, afterschool. 

Enjoy, holmes, I'll see you in detention. 

Mr Wilberforce 

 

Sherlock crumpled it grumpily and left it lying abandoned on the table. History was one of Sherlock's few lessons without John, so he sat with Greg Lestrade, one of the few people who tolerated him. Greg didn't even try to stop sherlock when he lept to his feet and strode around the class to their teacher, muttering something before he left, slamming the door shut behind himself.Brow furrowed, Greg swept up the ball of paper in his hand, curiosity taking control. He read the contents and chuckled to himself, leaning back in his chair, imagining his pale friend in shorts and a t-shirt handing out orange slices and bottles of water to his teammates.


End file.
